


slicker than water, thicker than blood

by WeAreTomorrow



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Insanity, M/M, split personality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 11:32:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeAreTomorrow/pseuds/WeAreTomorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what Sherlock does--he gives John back his hands.</p><p>Sherlock does this too--he gives John back his dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	slicker than water, thicker than blood

slicker than water, closer than blood

_{john/moriarty/sherlock}_

* * *

 

It's the one thing they share, besides the pulsing of red blood running thick and divided under the surface.

(One of them fights it.)

(One of them is patient.)

Sherlock, the obsession of.

It’s an unhealthy thing, born of lust and nightfall and the choked sound death makes when it wraps little children tightly in its wet embrace. The chlorine clings to him the way the guilt should, the way it does, at least some of the time.

John promises himself that it will never happen again, shaking and crumbling, that he won’t _let_ it.

It’s an unhealthy thing, this obsession, born of hope and fear. Of the coffee he can’t stand the taste of but swallows down anyway, throat already raw. He is not himself; except, of course, for the part where he is.  

So, he is on his knees, praying with clenched hands for answers.

There must be answers. It is only a question of looking hard enough.

Still, he is on his knees, hands clenched. It’s starting to hurt.

(One of them is crying.)

(One of them laughs.)

He looks hard enough. Or maybe, God grants him an angel.

 _Sherlock_ , he whispers, _Sherlock Holmes_.

But that's his reflection speaking from the fogged up mirror, twisting words into weapons, into packages with red bows perfectly tied because, yes, he's the one that loves it. The mockery, the games.

Some would call him heartless, but it's there, beating. He can feel it speeding up.

Blood is truly the tightest of bonds; it's strangling.

They are wrapped in each others veins, pulled closer with every heartbeat, stretched taught. Day and night, the line blurring between when he closes his eyes and where he is when he opens them.

So when he reads the police report, holding his breath, they are both dizzy.

 _Sherlock Holmes_ , he thinks, _are you what I’m looking for?_

 _Yes_ , he agrees.

They meet eyes in the mirror and for a moment, he is unsure which of them is reflected in cracked glass, in the rippling surface of water, in the ticking face of a clock counting down toward the first time they will meet Sherlock.

They will meet. The thought is dizzying. Delicious.

John wakes up, heart pounding and he is not in his bed. That’s okay though, he is used to this. Used to the disorientation, to the heaviness of his body and the way his hands are steady and strong.

They are bloody though, terrifyingly slick with it.

He steadies himself against the wall and slips, falling to his knees. He prays this time, not for forgiveness but for retribution. Not for control but for an ending.

It is here that the obsession starts maybe, this is where the circle begins. Except for the fact that circles have no beginnings and the ending was written long before there was any chance to stop. They exhale and ask two different questions.

_Could you have stopped me?_

There is blood trapped underneath his fingernails and he cannot get it out.

He is tired; so very tired and scared.

He is scared of himself, of how dizzy he gets before he falls asleep and the dreams he wakes up to. They are only ever nightmares except for the ones he has about angels, which are worse. Like sugar, it’s sweet and fleeting, melting too quickly on his tongue and leaving his mouth dry.

But John made a promise once, so he drinks his coffee and prays.

He does the one thing he can think of, the one thought he has not flavored with the metallic taste of a gun barrel and his own spit. There might be blood in it; his tongue hurts.

He goes to war. It helps.

(One of them is relieved.)

(One of them is delighted.)

He keeps his gun pointed in the right direction, thankfully, except for the fact it is no longer cold and heavy in his mouth and _it should be_. But still, he kills nobody he is not paid to. There is gratitude for that, pathetic gratitude and amusement.

His heart beats and the sound is two-fold; once in his chest and once, well.

He still dreams of angels.

_Could you stop me?_

They promote him; the ceremony is formal and quick. He is grateful; he tries not to snicker like a schoolboy and hopes they take his silence to be respect. They tell him he has served his country well.

 _Thank you_ , he says but he means for giving him a direction.

 _I’m honored_ , he says but shoots because he can’t figure out how to stop enjoying it.

It is far from fine, far from control but he no longer needs the coffee. That is something, a tangible something that he can almost pin up onto his uniform jacket next to the others. It’s the one he’s most proud of, certainly.

He still can’t get the blood out from under his fingernails though.

(One of them tries.)

(One of them doesn’t.)

They almost die.

 _Dear god, let me live_ , John thinks because he is weaker then he likes to admit but they think of Sherlock and in the back of his mind he knows _, we are not finished here_.

They survive. They go back.

There are a lot of things that happen between living and meeting Sherlock but none are really important when seriously considered. They breathe and they fight, teeth and tongue and shaking hands clutching paper coffee cups because he still has his rank but not his gun.

John wins and he drinks but they dream of the war anyway, of triggers and the sound death makes when it kisses you.

John wins, shaking and crumbling, and that’s important.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asks, already moving on.

“Amazing,” John says but what they mean is, _you are more then I hoped for_.

“Amazing?” Sherlock asks, and turns back.

They almost reach out, the look on his face hurting. The confusion, the hopefulness behind the sharp cheekbones.

(One of them wants.)

(One of them needs.)

John is not sure which of them feels what, wrapped too tight and twisted beyond recognition, and the realization is as comforting as it terrifying. They inhale and wonder the same thing.

_Would he stop me?_

It’s a different question from before, understand that. It’s important not to forget what side of the coin will land face up. Pay attention to the details, to his tremors in his hand. If it’s there, then he is safe another night.

They meet Sherlock, finally.

They meet Sherlock, and.

A skull sits on the ledge, grinning at him with empty eye sockets.

He opens the refrigerator and the fluorescent lights flicker on like spotlights. John gags at the smell, the motion familiar. He could tell Sherlock that this experiment will fail; that it won’t produce the results he is looking for.

He is John so he doesn’t.

They meet Sherlock. End.

Except for obvious fact that this is a circle and they are always spiraling down, faster now.

The police arrive, begging, though they pretend not to be. He cannot say who enjoys the moment more—them or Sherlock.

It is over too quickly, frustration a breathless weight in his chest.

 _John_ , comes the bitter whisper, _shaking and useless_.

Then the door opens.

(One of them wins.)

(One of them waits.)

He thinks that in this race he might come first; it being the only deciding factor, the only permanent victory. He comforts himself at night with the thought, tucks himself in with it as he fights to stay awake and himself, braced solidly at the edge of giving in.

This is what Sherlock does; he gives John back his hands.

Sherlock does this too; he gives John back his dreams.

There is no longer blood when he sleeps, no longer the splintering memory of bullets against bone or the sound made when bodies fall to the ground. It’s a terrible hollow thing, soulless and empty.

John stitches his patients together and no longer burns to take them apart, not as strongly.

He dreams of angels and wakes up in the bed where he falls asleep.

Sherlock gives him this and John loves him for it.

Crumbling, that was the other half now, the reflection, and this was all about endurance, all in the concept of fortresses and sieges and outliving starvation, outliving sanity.

(One of them calls this success.)

(One of them is biding his time.)

But Sherlock, dear lord.

Their pulse flutters like a trapped bird and he doesn’t pull back, wrists offered up from the fingertips, palms flat, ready to be divined. He wants Sherlock to figure this one out himself, the way he does best.

Because Sherlock asks for John’s help, his eyes begging for _amazing_ and _incredible_ and all the things he should know he is. Society is cruel that way, crucifying its saviors.

They throw stones, without the right to.

Sherlock asks for John and they do not resist. He’s a tea drinker now, actually.

But this is just the upper arch of the circle, the untouchable high, before the wheel turns.

With steady hands he traces the bruised skin of Sherlock’s face. High cheekbones stained purple, though they slice as sharp as ever. His pulse flutters as he touches with fingertips, wanting more. Underneath the desire, though, there is anger, deep and boiling.

It rolls hungrily in his stomach.

He goes to sleep, knowing he will not wake up in the same bed. Tomorrow he will scratch the knowledge from under his fingernails until the blood that runs is his own again.

It’s a choice but not a hard one.

He wakes up knowing he has to and remembers every little detail. He can remember the taste and when he vomits, it’s for the same reason as his short-cropped fingernails. Not disgust, but guilt and penance.

Terrified, edges blurring—familiar, yes, but suffocating still, always—he allows his reflection to take control of his fingers, lets the palms curl inward, just for the night, so that Sherlock never finds out. He can never find out what happened here, while he was looking in the wrong direction.

 _That was_ , he realizes later, _the plan._

It was dangling bait and he took it.

The bruise fades and so does the taste but, once uncaged his wandering hands are harder to control.

John still drinks tea because Sherlock will notice if he stops. They are fighting harder now, more violently with, as before, teeth and tongue and smoldering resentment. Control is a snatched, stolen thing, not unlike sanity.

Hasn't it always been?

They are competing for the same grand prize, racing toward the finish line with the same stretching legs and reaching hands and the only difference there has ever been between them is that he will lose.

The only way to win is by dragging them both back and, well, it's Sherlock, calling out for his help just beyond the red ribbon of the finish line.

 _Just this case_ and his dark eyes widen and it's cheating and sometimes he thinks that Sherlock knows.

That he wants him to lose too.

The reflection is much more interesting, isn't it? Much more elusive and if nothing else, Sherlock is a catcher of smoke, slender fingers curved around the bowstring and coaxing his insanity into slanted notes from the air.

Sherlock is _bored_. Restless and twitching.

He knows the feeling and clenches his hand tightly before they gives him away.

The problem is, Sherlock asked for him and they did not resist.

 _He is not asking for anything else_ , John pleads.

 _Not out loud_ is the argument.

The coffee burns his mouth but doesn’t make the answer sound less like the truth.

He is still John though, so he avoids mirrors and answers and, when questioned, looks at all the wrong evidence. This is a game too in a way; the similarities between them are striking, are they not? Are they _not_?

Sherlock is beautiful, all straight arching lines and soft lips. His words are sharp, cutting to the core of the things he dances around, to the things he knows but shouldn’t, to the things he chokes on because this is a siege and he must starve himself to win.

He must win.

It’s a simple chain rule, the most basic of his facts. _Not out loud_ , he wonders; winning is much more complicated now.

He still cannot resent Sherlock for it.

(One of them is terrified.)

(One of them is getting restless.)

His hands leave little gifts, red ribbons and red blood, when he isn't watching, on the somedays that he slips up, or rather, cannot make himself stop. Like a cat, slinking and purring and proud, always so proud, laying the slain bird at the master's feet.

It's hardly a fair fight, the bird's wings so sticky with tar.

It’s such a deep, shuddering pleasure—watching him figure these puzzles out.

The narrowing of eyes, the curving of a smile as facts stack up in domino rows, needing only the right push to topple into understanding. It's all in the rapid Morse code of his heartbeats, beating against slick flesh..

They listen to it and fight, viciously, endlessly, pointlessly, using the same mouth to trace a tired smile with the same tongue and think different thoughts about the same thing.

_I would let him break me._

_I could break him first._

But he is John. Except for the parts of him that are not.

(One of them is giving up.)

(One of them is done waiting.)

So, he is waving the white flag, as it were. _Surrender_ , the word burning his tongue as he spits it.

His reflection grins at him, swallowing the bitterness with laughter.

But what can he do; nothing, he is not the clever one; the better half once, but virtue dilutes pointlessly like heat into rock and now he is simply rattling locked doors, trapped on the wrong side of it for once, the other side.

Chasing circles, knowing that victory is just around the corner, only to find out he is chasing his own tail and all the late nights in the world cannot keep him from falling asleep tomorrow.

It’s not him laughing, too high-pitched, too terrifying. But he can’t make it stop, can only smother the sound in the pillow and make desperate compromises. Begs, maybe.

Cracking around the edges, sanity splintered like broken glass and hunger softening the edges of his hallucinations, they are a mismatched couple, tables turned and eating off the floor. That doesn't even make sense in his head.

To be fair, though:

The things in his head rarely do.

His hands do not shake as he wraps himself, not in red ribbons this time, but in bombs. Curling wires and ticking green letters and, twisted though it is, he is ready. He is accepting.

For Sherlock and he cannot be resentful.

On this they can agree.

They have only ever really wanted to give this to Sherlock, themselves, completely, whatever way he wanted it.

So here he is, wrapped up in wires instead of wrapping paper, and this was, of course, the most logical outcome. They present opposites, options, and who would pick average over pursuit of the exceptional? Certainly not Sherlock. Nor them, naturally.

It is only natural. Really.

(One of them will live with that fact.)

(One of them will die with it.)

He slips the thick coat over his shoulders, over the decorations that he will let Sherlock unwrap him from, slowly. He hopes that it's slowly, that he'll be able to taste it from the locked cavern of his chest.

He hopes that Sherlock says his name, _his_ , before he knows any better so that it can echo and maybe not feel so lonely.

The flickering blue pool lights play across a pale, smooth face that used to be his.

The feeling of it is strange, a dream. Those terrifying ones where he’s running for his life, faster than he’s ever run before, except it's not working, he’s not moving. Trapped, and they are the bird offering themselves up to the Cheshire grin.

White flags and reflections that whistle in the mirror even though he doesn't know how to.

There was only ever one of them that could.

Win, he means.

It wasn't supposed to end like this, he's sure of that, under florescent lights, here, in the place where it all began. It's been so many years now since he first heard the name Sherlock.

He whispered it through cracked lips as a prayer, as a warning, as a consequence.

The one that could catch them in his moments of weakness, in his moments of strength.

The splash of death hitting water and, _Sherlock_ , whispered in reverence, asking for deliverance and for his hands to stop shaking, for his world to stop crumbling at the edges.

Sherlock has given them that and more so they love him for it.

The water is unmoving in the pool and he wants to look at himself, one last time, but he is not in control anymore and his eyes don't turn, don't blink though they’re dry and stinging with the heavy scent of chlorine.

It itches, getting under his skin and pulling the muscles like puppet strings to make him smile. Except , of course, that the skin is his too; it all is.

They watch the shadow clinging to the wall come closer, all slender, slanting lines and an upturned chin.

Sherlock steps out, answering old prayers like the flourish at the end of a question mark. This is where beginning meets end; this is their Cradle, their own Pandora’s box, heavy with the smell of pool and potential and impatience.

The urge to reach out and take is overwhelming, with Sherlock reeling and so appealingly off-balance . He always stopped himself because he is the stable one, the one who must be in control.

He is the scared one, the one that worries about consequences.

But he is not in control now, is he? So the feet in his shoes step forward and the space between them shrinks to inches then to shallow breathes and the only thing he wishes with a dull ache is that he wouldn't have to share this moment.

They are going to break Sherlock, he realizes.

He has done his part, a perfect deception of honesty, just as real as the wicked smile stretching oddly across their face, testing muscles he's never let them use before. It's a sideways slanted thing.

Ill-fitting and unstable and Sherlock rocks forward onto his toes, drawn to it like fire.

That was the plan from the start, he realizes bitterly. And, really, he should have known.

"I did it. It was me, the whole time," his voice says, sounding unlike him, childish, as if it is being used for the first time.

Like it's being tested, tried and found satisfactory.

They are bleeding together again, deluding into each other in agreement, in pleasure, heart pounding so fast that there is no telling if it is a beginning or an ending. There is a dizzy rush as the circle rolls forward, as it must. They exhale.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective: _theirs_.

They lean in, both reaching for the finish line. Dark eyes widen, at the confession and at the motion and Sherlock has only a moment to figure it out, to answer the question.

And maybe he was wrong, maybe _this_ was the plan.

"John?"

"Shh, he's here too."

(They are going to eat him alive.)

"Let me introduce myself..."

* * *


End file.
